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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27568042">Survive This Storm</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/elzierav/pseuds/elzierav'>elzierav</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>RWBY</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Badass Gays, Canon-Compliant, Fight Scene, James Ironwood Needs a Hug, James had it coming, M/M, Qrow Branwen Needs a Hug, Qrow beats the shit out of Ironwood, Set during V8, They beat some sense into each other?, They beat the crap out of each other, but no V8 spoilers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 20:20:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,137</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27568042</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/elzierav/pseuds/elzierav</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Qrow is a whirlwind that never ends, a tempest that never falters. He is unpredictable, his blade is a feather randomly tumbling in the wind. James is the rock standing tall in the tempest, strong, stable, steadfast, unbroken, unbreakable, unbending. James is efficient. The battle is a tunnel, nothing outside matters. The cacophony outside doesn’t matter. Survival, that’s what matters. Surviving the next second, and the next, and the next.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Qrow Branwen/James Ironwood</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Survive This Storm</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>warnings: violence, mentions of blood, swearing</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>James does not know what Qrow means. His shouts are a cacophony, akin to bird’s broken caws. There is no melody, there is no rhythm. Qrow and James can never communicate with words, can never speak the same language. There is always a nervous tension trickling through the air between them, a dark cloud of raw unspoken emotions overhead, a storm threatening to break out. James cannot understand what Qrow is yelling at him, not that it matters. </p><p>Only the survival of Atlas matters. Only the Relic matters. The Staff cannot fall into Salem’s hands. The last bastion of light cannot succumb to the darkness. That is all that matters. To James Ironwood, that is all that ever matters. Nothing matters more.</p><p>He notices that the prisoners are unbound, Qrow and Robyn both. He notices her crossbow back on her forearm, his heavy blade at the small of his back. James deduces there must be a traitor in his ranks, who must have helped the prisoners before taking them to the General’s office after what happened at the hospital. </p><p>Whoever helped them must have given Robyn a sign, because she’s running off the corridor following the sound of someone else’s footsteps, probably to go steal something or destroy something. James sends a note on his Scroll to order the Ace Ops after her. Not that it matters. None of it matters now. </p><p>Everyone may be leaving the General, everything may be crumbling around him, constellations may shatter in the sky as stars drop into the void, the oblivion, nothing but ash and embers in the dark - yet none of that matters. As long as James can find a way to get a hold on the Winter Maiden and raise Atlas through the atmosphere, placing the Relic of Creation outside of Salem’s grasp, nothing else matters more. </p><p>For the sake of the plan, for the sake of the light, for the sake of humanity, James must stand strong. James must stand strong. Whatever happens, James must stand strong. Whatever fortune and misfortune throw his way, he must stand strong. Even if everyone turns against him. He must stand strong, whatever it takes. He must not falter, he must stop at nothing until the Staff is safe, until Remnant is safe. Even if it hurts. </p><p>And it hurts. Qrow blames him about Clover, and it hurts. Qrow has known the Ace Op leader for weeks - James has seen all of his career, all of his meteoritic rise through the ranks, until his eventual demise, and it hurts. Qrow blames Ironwood about the kids, about their arrest warrants and their escape, and it hurts. The scythe-wielder and the rest of his flock were a surprising respite to the General, suddenly surrounded by people who were ready to care for him, to confront him, to comfort him. They would have been his anchor. They could have been his gravity. But now they all turned against him, even Qrow, even one of his oldest friends, the only friend he once could completely trust. And that hurts.</p><p>It hurts, but James must stand strong. He must survive the storm. He must survive whatever Qrow throws at him in his own office, shoulder the blame for everything from those who cannot see that sacrifices are necessary, for those who are too blinded by details to see the big picture. </p><p>He must survive when words fail, and Qrow resorts to drawing his Harbinger. Qrow has always been a man of action, and James is not surprised it must come to this. It hurts, but it is not surprising. It hurts, but James must stand strong and survive this. </p><p>The great scythe traces a series of lethal arcs as Qrow twirls it effortlessly, accumulating momentum to strike. There is a rage in his crimson eyes, a rage that throws his gestures off balance, a savage grace that has no symmetry, only cacophony. There should be a rhythm to fighting. James is a man of action too, firing a series of rounds with his weapon, each of which his opponent evades by haphazardly stumbling aside, his thin frame tilted by the weight of the giant blade. A bullet dances too close to his temple, and he retracts his weapon to tonfa form to slice it in half with a flick of his wrist, as if swatting aside a mere insect. </p><p>Metal against metal, bullets ripped apart by Harbinger’s blade sound like nails on a chalkboard. It hurts James’s eardrums, but he must stand strong. Soon, Qrow closes the distance through the office, thrusting his sword tip at full speed toward the General’s chest. Undeterred, James raises his metal hand, gripping the blade before redirecting it, lodging the razor-sharp tip into the side of the desk. The blade’s edge doesn’t even hurt Ironwood’s metal fingers. But the rage, the crazed indignation ablaze within Qrow’s stunning irises - that hurts. That hurts a million times more.  </p><p>For a fraction of a second, the scythe-wielder blinks in surprise at his adversary blocking Harbinger with bare hands. But the legendary Huntsman recovers fast, flipping a switch to transform Harbinger back into a scythe and use the expanding handle to regain some distance between himself and his enemy. Then, a rictus at the corner of his mouth, Qrow swings his weapon, the sharp edge slicing at Ironwood from behind. Any less experienced opponent would have been stabbed in the back by the lethal scythe, but not James. A round of gravity Dust shot into the floor propels him above the curved blade with a flurry of violet sparks. </p><p>Pushing his boots off the ceiling, the General lunges back at Qrow, shooting his Dust gun to adjust his trajectory, waltzing out of the way of furious scythe slashes. Qrow is a whirlwind that never ends, a tempest that never falters. He is unpredictable, there is no melody to the way he fights. He fights like a man who has nothing to lose, a man who’s already lost everything - through death, through betrayal. He dodges out of reflex, slashes over here - then twirls and thrusts again over there, his blade is a feather randomly tumbling in the wind. There is no pattern, only uncertainty, deadly uncertainty.</p><p>James is the rock standing tall in the tempest, strong, stable, steadfast, unbroken, unbreakable, unbending. He holds his own amidst the office while Qrow dances around him, too maddened to fight efficiently. James, however, is efficient. The battle is a tunnel, nothing outside matters. The cacophony outside doesn’t matter. Survival, that’s what matters. Surviving the next second, and the next, and the next. Blocking a glancing blow to his shoulder. Parrying a sweeping slash, catching the blade, giving a sharp tug to destabilise the opponent off his feet. Grip the enemy’s wrist as he stumbles, knee him in the gut, punch him in the face. </p><p>Each second, each beat, each breath is a colour, a brush stroke, but the final painting doesn’t matter right now. The fact that James fighting a formerly close friend doesn’t matter right now. The only thing that matters is survival. The only thing that matters is that the shapeshifter’s Aura briefly flickers under the impact, before Qrow retaliates and catches Ironwood’s hand, trying to wrench Due Process out of his grip. The struggle is brief, the General having always been the stronger one of the two in terms of sheer strength. But Qrow’s Semblance cannot be underestimated, and somehow one of them accidentally fires a stray shot into Ironwood’s thigh. </p><p>It ripples against his Aura, shimmering in cobalt blue. It doesn’t hurt that much. Sensations sear through metal and through bone, through cables and through flesh, but it doesn’t hurt all that much, the adrenaline blocking out most of the pain. It doesn’t hurt that much, but James knows he can’t take much more until his Aura goes down. And yet, he must keep going. Yet, he must keep fighting. He must stand strong. With the recoil from his Dust-powered weapon, he launches himself off the ground and behind the desk, toppling the massive table over as a shield against which Qrow’s bullets ricochet ineffectively. </p><p>The rounds dent the surface of the desk, deafening clang after deafening clang. But James can hold on. Hold on and wait for Qrow to exhaust himself, exhaust his unfurled anger on the furniture, wait for an opening to exploit. The General’s eyes peer at the faint reflection on the window’s surface, intently watching his opponent’s next move amidst the messed up office, papers previously on the desk now tumbling scattered across the floor. Ironwood knows the office better than the back of his hand. He knows the pillars flanking the desk, he knows the small crack that slithers like old ivy along the side of one of the columns. He knows something is amiss as soon as he catches a glimpse of black feathers, soaring above the desk’s barrier to reach for James. </p><p>It takes one shot to knock the defenseless bird out of the air. </p><p>One other shot is fired, and panic prances in Qrow’s eyes. </p><p>But it’s too late, the bullet hit the crack in the pillar, shattering it to smithereens that collapse onto the shifter’s fallen form, depleting what’s left of his Aura. </p><p>Is this it? Is this all it takes for Ironwood to survive? James carefully walks out from behind the desk, Due Process in hand, eyes carefully scanning his adversary’s seemingly motionless form covered in dust and debris. The barrel of his gun is pointed at Qrow’s head, his metal hands unflinching, ready to press the trigger should the other Huntsman make the slightest of moves. The crumbled cinders crack under his boots, but he still advances, stable, unperturbable. </p><p>James does not see a movement, does not even hear a sound. He only feels pain rippling through his left calf as Harbinger’s blade stretches out in war scythe form to stab him. He only feels pain, pulsating pain shaking him to the core. Once his core was cold, empty, barren, emotionless, now it’s saturated with throbbing pain, and his body shakes, his world shakes, everything shakes with overwhelming pain. Helplessly, he falls to his knees, supporting himself with one hand while the other still brandishes his weapon. The ground quakes at his feet in the wake of his fall, dusty particles sent drifting afloat through the air. </p><p>Just Qrow’s luck, the trembling ground is the last straw, and the ceiling gives way just under the destroyed column, large fragments raining down onto the General’s body. Fingers quivering on the trigger of Due Process, James lets out a pained grunt, sensing the meagre remains of his Aura shattering into nothingness. </p><p>It hurts.</p><p>It hurts. </p><p>It hurts.</p><p>But somehow, James is still standing. Just barely, but still standing, Due Process pointed straight ahead. Somehow, it was worth it. Taking a heavy hit, destroying his office, knocking down a former friend to the point of Aura break, if it means eliminating an enemy standing between the General and his final goal, saving the Relic, saving humanity. It was worth it. It was all worth -</p><p>Nearly overcome by the ringing pain, James fails to notice Qrow’s nimble fingers wrenching his gun out of his grasp. One of the shapeshifter’s hands holds Due Process, while the other clutches Harbinger in its shotgun form. But before he can fire, James closes the distance, brutally tackling his enemy against the wall, a sweeping kick sending the General’s revolver tumbling from his opponent’s hand and sliding across the littered floor. Before the shifter can strike back, a prosthetic hand grabs Qrow by one arm before slamming him into the ground, crushed under the full weight of Ironwood’s half-metal body. </p><p>The struggle is brutal, all the efficient grace of trained Huntsmen utterly obliterated as they trade punch for punch, fists landing blow after blow. There is no beauty, there is no rhythm. James’s black metal hand pins Qrow’s wrist to the floor so he cannot raise Harbinger, while his other fist rears again and again to ram into his adversary’s form. Bruising his ribcage. Beating his features to a bloody pulp. Battering his face till the tears precariously clinging to long, dark lashes spill out onto pallid skin, onto damaged cheeks. And it hurts, Ironwood’s knuckles hurt, each nerve ending, each cable, each piece of scratched metal hurts more than he ever realised metal could hurt, and his heart hurts, and everything hurts.</p><p>And Qrow’s blows keep raining upward, because Qrow keeps going somehow, against all odds, against gravity. Steel rings colliding loudly against James’s metal half, painfully against his human half. Each blow hurts, each second hurts, the world hurts. The shapeshifter thrashes and kicks like a bird refusing to be caged, and this lasts long, too long. Each second hurts too much. How are they still surviving, still standing strong, still going? Eventually a gunshot echoes. </p><p>The General flinches, and suddenly the recoil of Harbinger imbues Qrow’s hand with momentum - enough momentum to swap their positions around, the shapeshifter ending atop his enemy with his sword brandished in both hands, its tip pointed vertically down to rest upon Ironwood’s throat.</p><p>James closes his eyes. </p><p>This is over. </p><p>This is over. </p><p>He gave it all he could, but Qrow won fair and square. He stood strong as long as he could to defend the light, to defend the fate of Remnant, but eventually he was bested. His life should flash before his eyelids, but instead there is darkness, nothingness, emptiness. Cold, barren emptiness. And the nagging whispers of a question - what was it all for? </p><p>His body, his mind, his conscience, all sacrificed for the cause, what was it all for? His Kingdom splintered and fractured, Mantle left prey to the Grimm, its poorest and most vulnerable never evacuated, Atlas terrorised by martial law and by Salem’s forces closing in, what was it all for? His friendships, his loves, all cast aside for his cause, for a cause he could not achieve, for a goal his own eyes would never see during his lifetime, for goals no one will reach for him after he’s gone, because everyone left him alone, everyone turned against him, even those he was close to, those he thought he could trust… what was it all for?</p><p>Was it all worth it?</p><p>Was the outcome worth the sacrifices?</p><p>An answer never comes. </p><p>An answer is never spoken. James and Qrow can never speak the same language, can never communicate with words. There is always a nervous tension trickling through the air between them, a dark cloud of raw unspoken emotions overhead, a storm threatening to break out. </p><p>An answer is never pronounced. Instead, James feels something fall against his cheek. Warm. Wet. His fingers reach for his face. Blood would be thicker than that. Could it be...</p><p>A broken sob escapes Qrow’s lips as Ironwood brushes the lone tear away, and then Harbinger falls. Impaling the ground next a hair’s breadth away from the General’s throat with a thunderous sound. The noise rings through James’s ears, the adrenaline courses through his veins, electricity sparking down each nerve, each cable, each fibre of him. His prosthetic arm reaches out for his opponent’s sword, grabbing the hilt to pull himself up and revert their positions once more. </p><p>Now James sits atop Qrow’s chest, lifting Harbinger above its owner’s face. It feels heavy between his hands. Qrow’s hand scrambles away until it closes around Due Process, lifting the barrel up and pointing it toward his adversary’s heart. </p><p>A second elapses. </p><p>Then another. </p><p>Then another. </p><p>Time seems to slow. Time seems to stop. This makes no sense. Time should not stop, shall not stop, cannot stop. Time cannot stop, James cannot stop. </p><p>James can stop at nothing, if he wants every sacrifice, every decision taken to matter, if he wants everything he did to be worth it. James can stop at nothing, if he wants the pain, the prosthetics, the loss, the loneliness, the nightmares, the sleepless nights to count, to help the light triumph over the darkness, to become the hero of his own destiny. James can stop at nothing, if he wants his dreams to stand strong, rising like Atlas toward the skies instead crumbling like stardust when he’s long gone. James can stop at nothing, even if it means watering the ashes with more blood, with more tears, with more rain so they can stay soldered together, as hard and heartless as stone. James can stop at nothing, even taking out those he cared for, those he loved, if they stand in his path toward saving humanity. </p><p>Then why is Harbinger so heavy? So slippery within his iron grip?</p><p>“I… I can’t...” James exhales, dropping the blade to clatter uselessly against the marble floor.</p><p>Why? Words cannot describe what is going between them. Words cannot describe the sensation, the raw sensation, how much the look in those breathtaking vermillion eyes hurts him, haunts him every day, reminding him of the remnants of his humanity, weak, weathered, <em> loving</em>, reminding him that nothing matters more. His heartbeat is weakened, irregular, damaged, but it still <em> survives </em>somehow, and under the touch of Qrow’s fingers, it accelerates. </p><p>“It’s okay, Jimmy... It’s gonna be okay.”</p><p>It’s awkward, even more awkward than the first hug when Qrow first arrived in Atlas with his flock. It’s a tangle of long, bruised, hurting limbs, a contact between sweaty, dusty, bloodied skins. But it’s everything. The world is still, stable, steadfast in their embrace, and that’s all that matters.</p><p>“Qrow… I can’t lose you.”</p><p>James thought he had lost him already. First at Beacon, when he had stubbornly refused to take down a maddened Qrow charging in his direction a first time. Then, when he thought the shapeshifter had killed Clover, despite Robyn’s testimony and Tyrian’s fingerprints on Harbinger’s handle encrusted with Captain Ebi’s blood. And then, when he turned up to Ironwood’s office with a madness in his eyes and an intent to kill, seemingly unwavering. James can’t bear the mere thought of losing Qrow again, ever again...</p><p>“Good, because I’m not going anywhere.”</p><p>Wild birds cannot be caged, and James cannot dare hope.</p><p>“Really?”</p><p>“If I leave you alone, I can’t trust you not to fuck everything up again.”</p><p>A pause. A shared chuckle.</p><p>“I understand.”</p><p>A silvery light dances in Qrow’s eyes as he turns to the side from his position on the ground, staring past the debris, the bloodstains, the bullet shells, the unkempt papers, the jet black feathers littering the floor, staring toward the light, toward the window, toward futuristic towers and spires and grimy slums in the snow, toward cold Atlas and Mantle suffering below. </p><p>“C’mon James. There’s still a lot to do.”</p><p>“Yes. We still have a lot to do.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I just needed this so I wrote it myself don't mind me.<br/>Next chapter, if it ever exists, will be a lot more shippy and explicit (because I want Qrow to distract Ironwood and hence save the world with his... ahem. Appendage.)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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